


sleepless

by v_icarus



Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Blood and Violence, Emotional Hurt, Eventual Smut, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, and no outlet, and now i have way too much muse for him, and v has just kind of appeared, because it's been a while since i've written, honestly this is a practice for me, lots of pining lots of violence and lots of death, so this is going to be a massive slowburn, with nero and v being the stars of the show
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-10
Updated: 2019-02-10
Packaged: 2019-10-25 19:46:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17731487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/v_icarus/pseuds/v_icarus
Summary: ’ do not go into the dark alone. hold my hand; i don’t care if it embarrasses you, or makes you fret, squirm like you were trying to crawl out of your own skin. you pull away and slice me across my achilles’ heels. three years later you will fling yourself from me into the grinning gamble of oncoming traffic and your years of being carried will rush up like starving orphans to kiss your palms. do not go into the dark alone. ‘ /v is an enigma, a mystery nero is desperate to unravel. but so far he's been less than successful, the enigmatic addition to team devil may cry seeming to always be one step ahead, always prepared to counter each and every scheme the young devil hunter throws his way. how long will this last? nero is slowly running out of patience and v is certainly running out of options. one of them will break, that much is certain, but who will it be? the pragmatic stranger who seems to know too much, or the guy who fights with the abandon of a dead man?





	sleepless

****v.

vitale.

life source. vital for one’s existence.

_vitalis_.

 

he likes the taste of it, certainly. likes the way his tongue slithers around each syllable, teeth eagerly grazing each letter. he is more than content to let it simply dissolve on his lips like a bittersweet pill, his own dose of valium ( — _or was it viagra ?_ ) or maybe even something with a _kick_ , like **_cyanide_** —

  

 

> _did you know that a whole bunch of early saints and martyrs were called that?_
> 
> _—_ but of course he did, v knew _everything_.
> 
>  

but he would never say. never confirm or deny but simply smile that _matter-of-fact_ smile of his that could mean a million things and could conceal a million more. an enigma carved from finest ivory, made in an image of those lovely marble statues nero would only admire from afar, lost deep in thought while browsing the yellowing pages of his grimoire. a scholar with a penchant for demon hunting. it’s strange to him, he doesn’t _seem_ the type. those hands ( _he wants to hold them_ ; his thoughts are a mess, akin to a mass of writhing worms his neighbour’s kids dug up last april to use as fish bait ) are more suited for arts and ink stains than viscera and demon ichor. but he knows what v would say if he were to ever bring it up. _nothing_. he would say nothing. he is practical and pragmatic, cryptic and enigmatic. he is everything and nothing all at once, lost in the darkness of every shadow - coloured corner, and it makes nero wonder if he would one day simply dissolve into the ashes and dust that layer these empty streets only to never surface again. it’s foolish, yes, it’s beyond irrational and so, _so_ _childish_ ( the fear of being abandoned by a _complete stranger_ ; truly how fucking bone - achingly **_ironic_** ) but he cannot **stop** his gaze from wandering every so often in _his_ direction, searching, fearing, hoping ( _pining_ — )

‘ hey, v! ‘ his own voice is an echo of another dead boy dying, a silhouette of someone else entirely ( stuck inside his skin like a tick, wanting to crawl out, wanting to peel away this outer shell strip by strip until _nothing_ but bleached white bones are left in its wake, ) ‘ demons ahead, you good? ‘

_but of course he was_. and here it is, that lovely smile of his, double edged and sharp and stained with secrets nero could only _hope_ to uncover one day. ‘ certainly. ‘ vitale has a voice of liquid gold, a voice made for reciting scriptures long lost, written in tongues only known to those left rotting in the earth below them. the dead speak the loudest when the night falls, when they think you are asleep. they gather around the pyre and chant, and sob, and howl of times long passed, of a world neither of the two would ever come to taste. but nero, in spite all of his curiosity, is fine with that because right _now_ what matters most is vitale. and he? is right here, right now, his presence heavy like an early morning fog and viscous like a blood clot. side by side, shoulder to shoulder. and maybe, _just maybe_ , this is enough.


End file.
